Vodka Tonic
by Ijemanja
Summary: She makes excuses for him, but she has few for herself. Set preseries. HouseCuddy.


Summary: 'She makes excuses for him, but she has few for herself.' Set pre-series.

Notes: Written for the houserareathon challenge on lj.

VODKA TONIC

by Ijemanja

x

Cuddy checks her watch as she moves down the corridor, because there's a light on in House's office and that's almost unheard of at this hour. Usually he's out the door at five on the dot, if not earlier. She wonders what could possibly induce him to stay late, and can't resist stopping and knocking lightly before poking her head around the door.

Now, House is many things. Mostly he's a recluse, avoiding everyone - with the exception of James Wilson, and working only when it suits him - which, as it happens, isn't often. This means that as an employee in her hospital, he's fairly useless. And when he deigns to come into contact with staff or, God forbid, a patient, he's utterly tactless.

He's also arrogant.

And he's difficult.

And he's currently stretched out on his couch, snoring faintly.

Stepping further into his office, she stares down at him. She's tempted to wake him for a number of reasons - to tell him off for the most recent of his transgressions, to tell him to go home, even just to see his face when he realises he's been caught off guard.

Then she sighs. She's not going to disturb him. She casts her eyes round his cramped, cluttered office before turning to go. Only to find, once her gaze makes its way back to the sleeping figure, that he's actually not.

'If you were hoping to take advantage of me, you've missed your chance,' he says with perfect poise, and sits up.

Of course, she's the one caught off her guard, now. And she wonders briefly if he was really asleep at all - she should know by now never to presume anything where he's concerned.

'I saw the light on in here,' she explains, trying not to betray her fluster. 'I knew you couldn't be working late, since that would involve you actually working. So what, you needed to catch up on your beauty sleep?'

He's staring at her now, the way he does sometimes - weighing and assessing. She resists the urge to just make an excuse and leave. She's the Dean of Medicine, she reminds herself. This is her hospital, and she's confident in being able to deal with any problems that arise. Of course, she's never quite figured out how to deal with _him_.

For now, though, she holds her ground, and his gaze. Because that's something, at least. And a moment later he looks away, his mouth twisting.

'Busy day,' he says mockingly, 'Just wore me right out.'

'You haven't so much as looked at a patient's chart in weeks,' she points out.

'I'm consulting on a case right now for cardiology,' he mutters as he grabs his cane and levers himself up off the couch.

She laughs suddenly, because she's caught him in a blatant lie.

'Nice try,' she says. 'I had Matheson in my office this afternoon, complaining that, not only did you refuse to take the case when he approached you, but you also felt it necessary to speculate on his sexual preferences.'

'And the fact that he went running straight to Mommy really just confirms my suspicions,' he says, and pretends to crack a whip in the air.

She sighs as she watches him limp around behind his desk and sit down. He seems completely unconcerned about the lie. This shouldn't surprise her - the man has gall coming out his ears - but somehow it still does, the way he is, the way he behaves.

The problem isn't simply that she doesn't know how to handle him, either - the problem is that he knows it. He'd have to do a lot worse than lie to her and hide in his office all day, sleeping, before she'd consider having him fired. And he knows this, too.

She thinks about how she smoothed things over with Matheson today, made yet another round of excuses for him. And she knows that he couldn't take advantage if she didn't let him. That's just how it works. She makes excuses for him, but she has few for herself. And yet, somehow she still can't bring herself to hate him. There's even a part of her that doesn't blame him for just wanting to be left alone - part of her that would do just that, give him that. Part of her that feels she owes it to him.

'You know,' she tries, 'If you're bored, there's always the clinic - I'm sure I could fit you into the schedule, if you don't have anything better to do.'

Sitting there balancing his cane across the back of his hand, his response is indifferent.

'Please,' he scoffs. 'You didn't think that was going to work.'

She deflates a little, but perseveres.

'Have you given any more thought to hiring a staff?'

'That's right,' his tone patronising now, 'Pick your battles.'

'Not even your reputation justifies you sitting around downloading porn all day,' she replies, bristling.

He waves a dismissive hand at her.

'Too serious. How are you ever going to find a husband, Cuddy, if all you ever talk about is work?'

'You've had plenty of applicants,' she presses on, 'What, not a single one of them is good enough to work with the great Dr House?'

'Want a drink?' He's just plain ignoring her now, digging through a draw until he produces a bottle of vodka.

'Oh my god,' she mutters, bringing one hand up to her forehead. As if, she thinks, he isn't enough of a problem already.

'Oh relax,' he rolls his eyes at her as he unscrews the cap. 'It's after hours, we're off duty. Well, I am. You probably do paperwork in your sleep.' He takes a swig and makes a face. 'I really need a fridge in here. Room-temperature vodka just plain sucks. Guess I'll just have to bring in something else. Tequila, maybe.'

He's toying with her, being as perverse as he can, just to provoke her. That she's aware of it doesn't change the fact that it's working. He looks at her expectantly, waiting to see what she'll do.

So she steps over to the desk and reaches for the bottle.

'Wipe it off when you're done. I don't want your cooties,' he says as he hands it over.

'Oh, did you think I wanted some? No, I'm confiscating it,' she tells him with a smile.

His amused expression hardens, turns a little bitter.

'Of course you are.' He gets to his feet, then, pacing a few steps, his frame taut with nervous energy. 'Somewhere in there I just know there's a girl-gone-wild waiting to get out,' he mutters.

'Of course,' she gestures with the bottle, 'A few shots of this and I'll be table-dancing, topless.'

'Well you're the one who came in here, woke me up and started screeching at me - surely I should get something out of it.' He rubs a hand over his face. 'What the hell do you want from me, Cuddy?'

'Would you like me to make you a list?'

'Well, all right, but I warn you, some of the more athletic positions are a little beyond me these days,' he says sarcastically.

'To start with you could stop making a joke out of everything.'

'Oh, you want me to take you seriously,' he tells her with an indulgent smile.

'I want you to act like a professional,' she counters.

He considers her for a moment.

'You want me to hire a staff. I might be willing to negotiate on that.'

'It isn't a negotiation -'

'Everything's a negotiation, young grasshopper.' There's that patronising tone again. 'And you know what would really help things along?'

'What?' she asks with a sigh.

'You giving me my booze back.'

She sets it down on the desk, but when he reaches for it she doesn't let it go. She stares at his hand covering hers on the neck of the bottle, and hesitates.

'You're not getting drunk in your office,' she says.

'Not even with a note from the boss?'

She wavers a moment longer, because there's a decision to be made, here, an opportunity she's not sure she wants to take. But she's spent far too much time already not knowing what to do with him - she has to try something.

Finally, she looks up at him.

'_I'm_ not getting drunk in your office, either.'

And there's that look again, like he could turn her inside out with his gaze alone if he wanted.

After a moment he shrugs. 'Plenty of places to drink in this town. Pick one.'

So, she does.

x

She changes her mind before they've even made it out of the parking lot. It takes him another ten minutes to figure it out.

'Chicken.'

'Excuse me?'

'You're driving me home.'

'Noticed that, huh?'

'I know the way to my own house, yes.'

'Well they do say you're a genius. And what do you care, anyway? You were going to get hammered in your _office_. You can do it just as well at home.'

'So it's not the drinking you object to, it's the location.'

'So long as there's no chance of you passing out in an elevator or the ambulance bay or something, and being mistaken for a patient, what does it matter? It's not as if you're going to have anyone's life in your hands tomorrow.'

'As opposed to you, who'll be - now what it is that you do? Is it open heart surgery? Or is it pushing papers around a desk. I forget which.'

'Yes,' she says with a sigh, 'My job is an affront to all doctors everywhere. At least I do my job, though, House.'

He doesn't respond to that, and there's a moment of silence.

Then he starts making chicken noises.

'Are you kidding?' she says, trying not to laugh. 'How much of that vodka did you drink?'

He produces the bottle from the inside of his jacket - she hadn't even noticed him putting it there before they left - and gives it a shake.

'Not nearly enough.'

He takes a long swallow then as if to prove his point, and she's glad she insisted on driving. Of course, if she hadn't insisted on driving, he would have dragged her to some dive or other by now.

As it is, she's pulling into his driveway, and he can get out, and she can go home and forget all about this misguided venture.

That's not how it happens, of course.

The car idles while he sits there, not getting out, just looking at her.

'You should come in,' he says, and gestures with the bottle again. 'I'll buy you a drink.'

'Why?' she asks, her tone wary.

He moves then, leaning in close. It's the vodka - she can't smell it on his breath, but she knows it's there.

'You know why,' he says. And then he sits back again, and adds, 'Negotiations, remember?' Opening the door, he prepares to climb out. 'You're the one who wanted to open up a dialogue.'

He doesn't wait to see if she's following, and what she _should_ do is drive away. But she doesn't.

x

She takes off her coat and refuses for the second time the vodka he's been nursing for the past hour. Accepts, rather, scotch - in a glass, with ice. And he prepares her drink with a bemused air that tells her at once that he finds playing host slightly absurd, and that he hasn't thought this through - doesn't know quite what he's doing.

It's reassuring.

She takes a sip of her drink and sits on his couch, watching him manoeuvre around the cluttered room until he starts to speak.

'So. I take on a few fellows, put together a nice little department for you - what do I get out of it?'

She blinks at him and swallows, her throat burning.

'What do you get?'

'Well there'd have to be something in it for me,' he reasons, taking a seat beside her with a glass of his own in his hand, 'To offset the pain and suffering I'm sure to endure with young idiots pestering me all day. I'm not sold on the idea, is what I'm trying to say. You'll have to sweeten the pie.'

She thinks fast.

'Well, of course, you could have a bigger office. Private lab space, a department lounge...'

She knows she has his attention there, just as she knows there's a reason he spends half his time hanging out in the oncology lounge.

'What else?' he demands.

She shrugs. 'What else do you want?'

'Now if that isn't a loaded question -'

'House.'

He smirks and tosses back his drink. 'Throw in a widescreen tv and a couple of recliner chairs and we'll talk.'

She rolls her eyes. Finishes her own drink and lets out a short laugh.

'Don't push your luck.'

'Oh, but I am feeling lucky tonight. Why is that, do you think?'

'Could it be the vodka talking?' she suggests dryly.

'It could,' he concedes, and retrieves the bottle from an end table to refill her glass. 'But I'm thinking more about history. It speaks for itself, or so I've heard. And what does history tell us about Lisa Cuddy? That so long as there's an albatross around her neck, she'll always be trying to atone for something. Poetic, isn't it?'

She doesn't answer, looking away and lifting the glass to her lips.

'And right now I'm wondering just how far that guilt complex extends.'

She pauses with her hand in mid-air. Then she puts the drink down carefully, feeling his eyes burning into her, seeing his smirk on the edge of her vision. Her car's outside, she thinks. She can leave, she _should_ leave. Because House is a lot of things - a genius, yes. A miserable bastard, certainly. And he's a mean drunk, articulate and vicious - she should have known he would be.

A mean drunk who's just implied she's a whore.

Suddenly she's furious with herself - she should never have come here in the first place. And she's furious with him, too, because in addition to being mean and drunk he also isn't entirely wrong.

Meanwhile, he's sitting beside her, not even touching her and yet still too close and the look on his face is all amusement at her expense.

It's this more than anything that pushes her to bring up the one thing she knows can get to him.

'The answer you're looking for,' she says, looking over at him, 'Is 'not that far'. As tempting as the idea of being your rebound is.'

He doesn't move but she can see him withdraw. His expression becoming just a little tighter, a little more schooled.

'Ah, of course you think this is all about Stacy.'

'It isn't? Not any of it?' she presses.

'I'm wondering why you care. If you weren't interested you'd say so, but since you're questioning my motives - well, that's a different ballgame, isn't it? So what is it, afraid I'll break your heart?' he sneers.

'Poor House,' she shoots back. 'Your girlfriend walked out and now you don't have anyone to stroke your ego for you. Instead of spending all your lonely nights wondering why she left you, maybe you should be asking yourself how she lasted as long as she did.'

'Maybe I should be asking you. Tell me, how often were you and she fucking, there at the end?'

She stares at him. 'You think I was sleeping with Stacy?'

'Don't try to deny it.' He wags a finger at her. 'You were looking particularly guilty those days. And you couldn't stand being in the same room as your partner in crime.'

'That's because I knew she was leaving you. We argued about it, stopped speaking.' She throws up her hands. 'I don't know how that translates into an affair.'

'Well she shouldn't have left you all alone to deal with me! How difficult that must have been for you. Still, just because you weren't speaking - I mean, you don't need to talk to her to go down on her.'

'I'll take your word for it on that,' she replies.

'You have yet to even try to deny it.'

She shakes her head. 'What's the point? You've clearly made up your mind already.' She sighs. 'I think I should go. I'm not looking to be your punching bag for the night.'

'No, but you'd be happy to sit here and hold my hand if that's what I wanted.'

'Since I'm pretty sure it's not your hand you want me to hold -'

'And you're only here because you thought I'd make a good drinking buddy? Fuck buddy, maybe.'

'You're so sure I want to sleep with you.'

'Well I think you want to get nice and drunk first, so you won't have one more thing to blame yourself for in the morning.'

She looks away. She wants to laugh, and she wants to leave, and she wants to wipe the smug, knowing look off his face any way she can. He reaches towards her then with no particular intent, it seems - aside from seeing if she'll let him. She knocks his hand away, though, only to reach out herself and grab his shirt.

'I'm not drunk,' she says. 'I'm not even close.'

And she slides across the cushions, closing the distance between them.

She doesn't kiss him. He doesn't try to kiss her but he does touch her - at her waist, her back, pulling her closer still, pressing his face into the curve of her neck when she runs her hands down over his stomach.

She's still on edge, and fuelled by anger she opens his pants and takes hold of him. Shifts to kneel in front of him, and sucks his cock until his whole body is tense with not-coming and his hands are tight fists in her hair. Until she pulls away suddenly and he bites back a groan.

She doesn't meet his eyes as she gets to her feet.

'Bedroom?' she says.

He points with his cane before levering himself up beside her.

'Condoms?' she asks next, because that's the second most pressing issue.

'In the bedroom. Any more one-word questions?'

She doesn't wait for him, just shoots him a look over her shoulder. 'Not right this second.'

His bedroom is dark, and she leaves it that way when she enters. When he follows a moment later the first thing he does is flip on the light.

'No pretending I'm someone else.'

'Shouldn't that be my line?' she returns.

'Oh this is going to be fun, I can tell,' he smirks, and lays his cane down on the dresser, rummaging through the top draw until he produces a box of condoms which he tosses on the bed.

She turns away and reaches up to unclip her hair, and as she does so he makes his way over to her, reaches around and starts undoing the buttons of her blouse. She shivers a little, feeling him suddenly against her back.

He pulls her shirt down off her shoulders and her bra follows and then his hands, large and confident, cover her breasts. His face is in her hair, breathing it in, and his thumbs brush over her nipples and she sighs. It feels good - he feels good.

She steps out of her heels as his hands wander restlessly over her hips and stomach. Then he moves away, removing his shirt and sitting himself on the edge of the bed to pull off his shoes and socks. And for a fleeting moment she's struck with the thought that everything now for him is a chore - nothing is easy, nothing is effortless...

It will always hurt, she thinks, and shoves down her skirt, underwear and pantyhose in one go.

Naked, she kneels over his lap and brings his mouth to hers. He isn't expecting it, she can tell, and that might have been something else for her to feel bad about if she wasn't suddenly so lost in the feel of his tongue in her mouth and the press of his erection between her thighs. She's still just kissing him when he starts fumbling behind him for the condoms and god yes, it's past time for that, she thinks impatiently.

He slaps her hands away when she tries to help him with it, which almost has her laughing. He's pushing her over onto her back, then, and though she doesn't say anything he growls at her anyway.

'I can still be on top, you know.'

'Really? I wondered about that.'

He pauses suddenly. 'You wondered? Just how often do I feature in your fantasies?'

She rolls her eyes and takes hold of his cock.

'So far you're all talk, no action, House - why don't you shut up and show me what a stallion you are.'

It's a cruel taunt but she doesn't care at this point. She only cares that the smirk is gone from his face, and that his weight is pressing her into the mattress. Then it's hard and fast and just what she asked for.

x

He's in pain, afterwards. She props herself up on one elbow and watches the lean lines of his back as he sits on the side of the bed and eats a pair of vicodin like they're tictacs.

He puts a hand to his thigh, tension in the set of his shoulders. She wonders what would show on his face if she could see it - frustration, anger perhaps, despair. But that could merely be projection on her part, she supposes. Maybe he'd be smug, uncaring - maybe he'd laugh at her for her thoughts.

And maybe she doesn't know how to handle him - professionally or otherwise - but he's no better off, she realises. Maybe the way he deals with the rest of the world is merely to prevent anyone from seeing he has no idea now to deal with himself.

She can't help him with that.

She _can_ help him keep his job, not that he'll ever see it that way, of course. Still, it doesn't seem like much. Of course, she can apparently sleep with him, too. But whether that's to the benefit of either of them is yet to be seen.

He falls back on the bed, then, his hands over his eyes. She takes the opportunity to get up, retrieving her clothes from the floor.

'Going so soon?' he rumbles from his prone position.

'Would you believe I have to be up early?'

'Don't make excuses on my account.'

'I have a meeting at seven -' she starts to protest.

'And I could not possibly care less,' he cuts her off. But his tone is as mild as it's been all night.

She finishes getting dressed, scooping her pantyhose up off the carpet and slipping her shoes on her bare feet. He's watching her, hands folded behind his head now, while he lies there naked and apparently uncaring. It's his leg that draws her eye, though.

There it is, she thinks.

What she says is: 'I never slept with Stacy, you know.'

His mouth turns up in amusement.

'Well if we're confessing - I never really thought you did.'

She frowns. 'So you were just, what, trying to provoke me?'

'Getting you on the defensive.' He shrugs, wholly unapologetic. 'Seemed like a good idea at the time.'

She shakes her head. 'Not the best way to go about getting someone into bed.'

'Except that it worked. What does that say about you?'

'I'd say it worked in spite of your character flaws, not because of them.'

He gives her a big fake grin at that and pushes himself back up into a sitting position. 'I'm really enjoying this new side of you I'm seeing tonight, Cuddy. You're hot when you're insulting me. You better get out of here before I jump you again.'

She casts her eyes to the ceiling. 'Don't worry, I'm going.'

She pauses in the doorway, though. Maybe he's right - that she sees him as her responsibility, something she needs to atone for. But she doesn't have to treat him that way. There have to be limits. Maybe he was trying to get her to see that all along.

'You know,' she says, 'I'm going to hold you to what we discussed before - you're actually going to have to get off your ass and start hiring people.'

He looks up at her like he's surprised she's still there. 'Well of course,' he replies. 'I'll get right on that. Maybe next week sometime,' he adds.

She wonders briefly how she's ever going to get rid of the image of him stretched out lazily across the mattress, and tells him: 'Tomorrow, House.'

'But I'm holding out for a widescreen tv, remember?'

She smiles. 'No, you're not.'

If nothing else comes of tonight, she thinks as she turns to go, at the very least she's starting to understand things a little better. It makes her brave.

end


End file.
